


Lighthouse Keeper

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Bioshock Infinite Spoilers, Extreme narcissism, F/M, Lutecest, Twincest, Whatever it is we're calling it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's cold outside, but there's always a lighthouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lighthouse Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> Here be spoilers of the Bioshock Infinite variety.
> 
> I refuse to believe the Luteces just bounce around from tear to tear without ever taking breaks, especially since Rosalind's house in Columbia is rather lovely. So: between attempts to fix their screw-ups, they go back to her laboratory to relax and do Physics.

Rosalind can't actually feel her fingers, but they tremble unceasingly while she fumbles her raincoat onto its peg. As far as biological responses go it makes perfect sense; were she some poor unfortunate without hope of shelter from the tempest outside she would probably be very grateful for the extra warmth her body strives to generate. But she is not, and was not, and will never be, and the exercise for which she is now suffering most tiresomely will probably end up being as futile as her brother's attempts to restore sensation to her frozen digits.

 

Robert's fingers are as cold as her own, and he would be far better off starting a fire in the sitting room hearth than taking her hands and chafing at them. She tells him so, though it won't help at all. It never has. If she's very fortunate, it never will.

"I do hope you realise how pointless that is. You feel as though you submerged yourself in liquid nitrogen." She doesn't pull away, and he doesn't cease his well-meaning efforts to warm her. "It's all your fault anyway."

"I wasn't to know the weather would turn so quickly," Robert says patiently, then lifts her hands to his lips and blows on them. "Perhaps it's a sign. The winds of change, one might say."

 

Rosalind snorts in amusement. "One would say nothing of the kind, unless one woke up to find oneself transposed into Comstock's body, and fully equipped with a double dose of fanaticism. No, dearest, I fear we are in for yet another disappointment. _Don't_ get your hopes too high." She squeezes his fingers to take the sting from her words.

 

"My darling pessimist." He starts to smile even before she's rolled her eyes at him. Such is the nature of their interactions.

Most of their interactions. "That's darling _realist_ to you, and it will remain so until I see definitive proof that this endeavour of yours isn't a doomed whim. One should never draw conclusions without adequate data, but we have performed trials, and plenty of them. This DeWitt will be no different to the rest."

"Perhaps not." Robert is non-committal, pacifying her with his patience, as he always does. Always has done. She wins most of their...debates, simply because he will not fight with her. She cannot bait him; he knows where she will place the snares.

 

He was calm when he set this endeavour in motion. He did not plead, as other men might have, and he did not shout, as other men would have, when all else failed.

"We will fix this, or we will separate. There will be no other option." The threat alone would have been enough to move her; she may call it a whim, or flight of fancy, but he would not have threatened if the situation did not pain him as much as the thought of parting. And so, she surrendered. And continues to do so. It has cost her many things, but she never counts them. Did she not tear apart time and space that they might be together? This endeavour is nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the void of separation that looms in potentiality, and she will not end it.

 

Complaining is quite acceptable, however. She will continue to do so.

"Based off the woeful misfortunes that continue to assail us, I feel quite safe in wagering that next time our boat will overturn. Perhaps we will drown. That would be your fault too, brother."

"Or perhaps the changes we've engineered this time will result in a more positive outcome. One without unnecessary drowning."

Sensation is starting to return to Rosalind's fingers; soon she may actually be capable of making them both tea without dropping the mugs. There's no longer any real need for Robert's efforts to warm her, but she lets him continue. Just a little longer.

 

And he may well be correct; they've altered certain events, adding one and removing another, and who's to say they haven't discovered the correct combination at last?

 

She pulls one hand free with a sigh, and reaches into a pocket for her handkerchief.

"We're becoming quite daring in our actions, I'll grant you that. Whether or not it'll have any correlation with a desirable outcome... hold still. You missed a spot." Robert tilts his head obligingly and lets her dab at the small blood spatters on his neck. A shame they could not complete that particular task without fuss. Of all the possibilities to choose, it _would_ be the one in which a lighthouse keeper could not sleep, and rose to make himself a late supper. So much the easier if he had not been awake.

 

Still. One must shoulder one's burdens. She's a terrible shot at the best of times, and Robert _will_ stand too close to her, however often she warns him.

"There. And next time I rather think it should be your turn to do the shooting." It's a new variable they've introduced, and therefore will need several tests before they decide whether or not to dispense with it.

 

Robert clasps her hand as she makes to withdraw it, kissing her knuckles in that amiable way of his. "I'll do the shooting when you agree to row. It seems-"

"-highly unlikely," she finishes for him. "The exercise will continue to do you good."

"I suppose it will." Differences. So many startling, startlingly _wonderful_ differences. He is all patience where she resorts to cutting wit, and while she would have long since stalked off to sulk amidst her notes and experiments, he remains warmly resigned to her teasing. Oh, how she loves this man. Loved, when he was a voiceless message from another world; loves, when he holds her hands and tries to warm them, as though it doesn't matter that his own still shake.

 

Will love, though they continue to fail at this task of his.

"Come on then. No sense in freezing to death in the hallway. You-"

"-start a fire, and _you_ make a pot of tea." He gives her hands one last rub before letting them go. "I don't suppose there are any of those cakes left over; an evening of unassisted rowing does wonders for the appetite."

 

He darts past her, lightly brushing a hand against her back as he does. Rosalind curbs the instinct that tells her to trail after him, consciously charting a path to the kitchen and following it with purposeful steps. "No, they're gone. You finished them last time, glutton that you are."

"Did I? Are you sure? Perhaps I'm _going_ to finish them." There's an odd comfort in shouting to each other from separate rooms. Better by far than the silence that marked her adolescence with its oppressive ubiquity.

 

He's right, in the end: the cakes are not yet finished. She piles them on a platter and brings them out with the tea, and Robert takes one with a cheerful, "I told you so" that she doesn't begrudge him.

"Glutton," she says instead, ruffling his still-damp hair.

 

The fire is roaring, and much too warm to have only been burning for some ten minutes. They've talked about this...at least, she thinks they have, or will soon enough. Tampering with little things for frivolous reasons should be avoided, and by rights she ought to scold. Next time, perhaps.

 

Placing her jacket, tie, and waistcoat over a chair to dry, Rosalind sits by the hearth in just skirt and blouse, sips her tea, and silently thanks Physics for filling her empty spaces with Robert. At some point he comes to join her, chivalrously offering the last cake, which she takes just to see his face fall. In the end, they split it between them.

"I really do think there is potential this time," Robert says. The firelight throws his freckles into sharp relief, as it must do her own.

"You say that _every_ time," she replies, without rancour. The conversation is a constant, though the location and details may differ. There's been tea and cakes before; there's never been damp hair and a roaring fireplace. She rather likes the change.

 

"Statistically speaking, I have a good chance of being right at some point." He has a sweeter smile than she. Or perhaps she once had it, and lost it somewhere amidst Comstock's unceasing demands. She rests a hand on his knee, and leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

"Chin up, dearest. You may have better luck next time."

"If the rowing doesn't kill me first."

 

There's always a lighthouse; it need not be a building. She will follow where he leads.          


End file.
